I haven't written for a while. A long while. It wasn't because I didn't have anything to say. Quite the contrary: I had a lot to say. But none of it was happy or even particularly nice. It was mostly centered around arrogant medical professionals and the frustration of being the white fluffy stuff in the oreo (my definition of the sandwich generation).
I will be 48 on Friday. I never thought I'd be looking forward to being that old and, really, I'm not. I'm just looking forward to 47 being over. It's been a hellish year. Why?
I spent much of the last 6 months taking care of my mother.
I now have a house full of stuff that isn't mine.
I have a medical diagnosis that could, and likely will, end my interpreting career.
I have two teens who are, well, teens.
Why is 48 going to be better?
I'm no longer afraid to answer the phone for fear of what went wrong with my mom. She's safe and happier now.
I still have a house full of stuff that isn't mine. But I'm selling lots of it.
I feel a little better.
I still have teens.
My goals for this year:
Get my life back.
Paint my house.
Meet new friends who like to do things I enjoy.
Go somewhere. Anywhere. Preferably with a beach. And maybe a friend.
I'm going to like this year, goddammit.